


It's a Date!

by morecivilizedage



Category: xXx (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Constipation, First Dates, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morecivilizedage/pseuds/morecivilizedage
Summary: Xiang is probably allergic to feelings, but it's Xander's birthday, so he figures he ought to give it a try.





	It's a Date!

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [vaenire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vaenire/pseuds/vaenire) for a-egging me on into writing this and b- giving it a quick look-over so its actually a coherent piece of writing.

It feels strange, being nervous.  There have been many events in his lifetime that most people would consider nerve-wracking, things that he only sees as a challenge.  His job, his  _ life _ , is all about the fight to reduce the impossible to nothing more than the difficult.  He has faced bullets, “bad guys,” the wrath of nations, the undefeated inevitable law of gravity.  But not a one of those things was harder than this moment is, now, fiddling with his suit tie and holding a bouquet of blue and gold as he stands outside the door to Xander’s hotel room.  This is Hong Kong,  _ his city _ , and even if they are on something of a job, it can be placed on hold for one night as Xiang takes his… Xiang takes Xander out to dinner at a not-quite hole-in-the-wall for Xander’s birthday.

He’s terrible at this… sweet stuff.  Xiang’s world is one of sharp edges and broken limits and furious fucking against the brick wall of back alleys for the rush of it.  Xander, for all that the man would never ask it of him, just wants to hold his hand, sometimes.  In the quiet.  Xiang doesn’t know if he can do that.

When Xander opens the door, he’s wearing a nice pair of dark slacks and a chunky knit sweater of garish hunter’s green, but given that his own suit is a vivid blue plaid ensemble, he supposes he’s in no position to judge.  (Except that he is, because Xiang’s terrible wardrobe choices are deliberate, whereas he is fairly certain Xander doesn’t realize what he looks like at all).  Instead of saying anything he holds out the flowers, awkwardly, belatedly, realizing that—given how terrible his Mandarin is—the man probably hasn’t the slightest idea that the colors were significant.  Not that it matters, as Xander accepts the bouquet awkwardly, like he isn’t sure what he is supposed to be doing with it.  Which, quite honestly, makes two of them.

When Xander looks back up at him, it’s with this strange expression, soft around the edges, and Xiang shifts his weight, and glances away.  Xander gracefully steps inside, and shuffling sounds can be heard, presumably trying to find some sort of vase to shove the flowers in until he can decide what to do with them properly.  Xiang just waits outside the door, resisting the urge to scuff his nice leather loafers against the shitty carpeting.  Whatever Xander does, it doesn’t take long, and if the man somehow managed to find a flower that tucks neatly through the cable of his sweater like a corsage, Xiang certainly doesn’t notice it. Not at all.  Xander has a soft smile at the corner of his lips as he shuts the door behind himself and locks it.

It’s weird, the walk to the restaurant, walking almost side-by-side but not touching.  Not talking much, either.  Xander isn’t exactly a conversationalist unless prompted, and Xiang’s tongue feels frozen to the roof of his mouth.  A woman loitering outside the door eyes them both—overdressed, among other things—skeptically, but Xiang slides easily into Guangdong speech, and after a rapid-fire conversation that has Xander’s eyebrows raising, she shrugs and lets them in.

“Nice place,” Xander says as they sit and awkwardly look down at the menu.

“Yeah,” he replies, lacking any sort of elegance, “It’s one of my favorites.”  It takes a moment for Xiang to realize that on top of being functionally unable to speak any variety of Chinese, Xander can’t read it, either.  Which is something he knew already.  He’s so off his game tonight, but Xander doesn’t seem to mind, watching him with this expression that is almost but not quite surprise.  Something like  _ happiness _ .  The genuine kind, that comes from someplace deeper than the rush of adrenaline.

Xiang just goes ahead and orders for both of them.

When the food comes, it’s properly spicy—the way Xiang remembers his grandmother making it all those times they had visited her in Zhuzhou—and he digs in, uncaring of the fact that he sounds like a man feasting after having been starved.  Xander laughs, lightly, but there isn’t anything mean in it, and Xiang smiles, somewhat sheepishly, and motions for Xander to start eating, too.

Then, it’s his turn to laugh, because Xander has clearly never had  _ real _ western province food before.  His eyes start tearing up, and he makes a choking sound.  Xiang has mercy and pushes a tall glass of ice water in his direction, which the man  _ chugs _ like it’s a competition.

After that, eating is a little more sedate, Xander having been suitably forewarned, and Xiang still coming down from his laughter at watching Xander choke.  Even the constant undercurrent of his nerves hasn’t managed to chase the smile on his face away, and Xiang has to tentatively admit, if only to himself, that this has been… nice.

They duck into a convenience store after for cheap ice cream, and after a while, Xander stops eyeing the alleyways like he expects to be shoved down one.  Xiang wouldn’t do it here, anyways.  Xiang moves in half a step closer, even if he can’t quite bring himself to try to reach out and grab Xander’s hand.  For some reason, Xiang finds he doesn’t quite want this evening to end, so instead he leads Xander on a winding path towards the Lo Pan Temple.  It isn’t something he’d really think of as a  _ them _ sort of activity—visiting Historic buildings isn’t exactly a past-time that either of them are known for—but, by the same token, a dinner date isn’t exactly a  _ them _ activity, either.

They catch a bus instead of walking the whole distance back to their hotel, and—in a mash of Spanish and X’er hand-signs—they make up elaborate backstories for the other passengers.  It has them both trying to suppress laughter, especially when Xander punctuates his explanation of the man two-seats-down-and-to-the-left’s torrid four-way affair with a deliberate waggle of his eyebrows.

They are both slow to work their way up the hotel stairs, and when they get to Xander’s door, Xiang stops abruptly, uncertain.  Xander unlocks the door, and is about to invite Xiang inside to end their nights together the way they usually do: having wild monkey sex and pretending that Xiang won’t slip out in the middle of the night.  Xiang cuts him off, bouncing up on his tip-toes briefly to press a tentative kiss, chaste and sweet, on Xander’s parting lips.  


“Happy Birthday,” he says abruptly.  Xander stares, stunned, down at where Xiang has uncharacteristically shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.  Before Xander can say anything, Xiang ducks around the corner and heads towards his own room, missing the way that Xander brings his fingers up, tentatively, to press against his lips.


End file.
